


Welcome to Johnny’s Jimusho

by YogurtTime



Category: Arashi (Band), Johnny's Entertainment, KAT-TUN (Band), SMAP, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Absurd, Blood and Gore, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, POV First Person, Surreal, Violence, Welcome to Night Vale - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-20 06:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11914764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YogurtTime/pseuds/YogurtTime
Summary: The walls of Johnny’s Jimusho are thick and full of beautiful, sinister, sweet, and sepulchral secrets, but to us idols, it’s simply local news radio. So sit back, lock your dressing room door, and whisper your favourite protective mantra because you are now listening to WTJJ Radio.





	Welcome to Johnny’s Jimusho

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written a week before October 9th 2013. Completed the day I found out Tanaka Koki had been fired. Damn, guys. Quite shamelessly based on the incredible Welcome to Night Vale podcast series. If you haven’t yet fallen into this warm, dark, quirky hole, I very highly recommend it because lord knows, I’m far from being able to do it justice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_You’re only as talented as your worst perm... and fame only lasts as long as you’ve kept it away from moisture._

_Welcome to Johnny’s Jimusho._

 

 

 

Good evening, Johnny’s.

As usual, I am your radio host, Taguchi Junnosuke and for breakfast I had a cold, single slice of twelve-grain bread with half a banana. I would like to formally apologise to the other half of that banana. It was not a contest, but an indiscriminate selection. May you no longer bear me any ill will.

Moving on,

Top floor: our CEOs have begun an upbeat campaign to encourage tourism in the jimusho basements. They’ve installed a series of really fun-looking arrows each decorated with a blinking LED light trim and all flashing arrows point toward the lower floors. This is most exciting as we were previously **forbidden** from discussing the basement in general. However, judging by the company-wide reception when several of our more curious fellow Talents took it upon themselves to make the—once-forbidding, but now one-way—trip downstairs, the CEOs say they feel much more at ease about the overall concept and are now more than happy to open the doors to the general public— general, of course, meaning Talents-only. No elitism, but it is a truth we cannot deny that the Talents of Johnny’s Jimusho work as hard as we do and deserve, if anything, the more glittery perks that our careers demand.

I, your syrupy and enthusiastically-voiced radio host, would personally like to express my support for this campaign because, listeners-- contrary to popular opinion— a lot of our funding comes from the deepest bowels of this very building. ‘Diamonds, pure like they grew from the earth, keep sweeping in from the heaters,’ our top CFO can be heard muttering as he makes his usual shuffle back and forth from the water cooler to the Room of Ledgers.

Wow. _Pure_ diamonds, listeners. Do you know what this means? We could start marketing jewellery! Johnny’s Jewels! Actual Johnny’s engagement rings we’ll never be allowed to use because of course idols do not marry. Not for real, anyway.

So, Gentleman, whoever you may be, on any particular off-colour day; as your work steadily decreases; as your television appearances dwindle; as your schedule begins to look like a mere pool of white nothing; _any_ day when your shoulders feel heavy and the rent from your once affordable, yet classy condo has since become overdue; as you’re just on your way out, guys, do take the time to sulk and creep... or flounce, if you like, down the lantern-lit stone steps toward our basements and find out just how it is you can _still_ contribute to the illustrious wealth we’ve been enjoying these past years.

On a separate, yet related point, I’d like to remind listeners that diamonds created from human ash are still measured in size, _not_ on the aforementioned human being’s productivity prior to being sacrificed to the FURNACE GODDESS. Having said that, top group SMAP’s very handsome and cloying Kimura Takuya has asked that I also encourage listeners to, **‘Stop trying to push specific people down the basement steps! It doesn’t make a difference! Yes, I’m talking especially to _you_ , Nakai Masahiro!’**

In conclusion, a list of names of the top contributors will be posted daily on the company’s only bulletin board just under the superfluous—and Johnny himself insists ‘ _meaningless_ ’—banner with the English word ‘Obituary’ painted across it in lime-green.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**And now, the news...**

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the twelfth floor, there have been reports of a steady rise in paperwork. The shallow, feathery sound of fluttering and flapping; all those pages just turning and shifting together can now be heard echoing all the way down to the tenth floor.

As the paperwork increases by the hour, witnesses state that they are both overwhelmed and suspicious. One witness, identified as _the_ Tanaka Koki, said, “There’s all this paper. What the hell?” —you know him, right? The one in KAT-TUN with the mouth? Yeah, him. He’s wearing green-striped flannel today. I happened to notice this because static electricity is a tricky thing and can confuse certain radio announcers into thinking they might have a thing for their fellow group member…

Or possibly a thing for being shocked by static electricity.

More on either story as it develops...

 

 

In other news, Jimusho security has begun to crack down on Talents found wandering the halls of the building alone. Security used to rely exclusively on the all-seeing vantage of our building’s hidden camera technology, but with certain Talents constantly apprehended strolling our corridors completely Solo, Security has announced that they are now placing camera lenses in the foreheads of every Jimusho employee; that includes staff, managers, assistants, interns, stylists, and Yoga instructors.

“ **Soon we will be completely rid of this deviant behavior,”** says Head of Security, Norita Taro, “ **The way these unlawful Talents with their long permed hair, big brown eyes and stylishly grunge boots strut like they’re in no danger of being devoured reflects on the entire company! We must bring an end to this!** ”

Ugh seriously?! No, come on. I know exactly whom they’re subtly referring to. You know what, Akanishi Jin? Quit being so uncooperative yet derivatively subculture to such an embarrassing extent! You’ve made your point! Regardless of the amount of time you claim to have spent locked in a box of spiders under Johnny’s desk—a story you’ve yet to back with solid evidence—you are still a working Talent! I’ve told you time and time ag—ah ok well, I swore to myself I wouldn’t lecture anyone during broadcast, but you _know_ the law. All Talents must walk in pairs or in formations of three or four; merits are even awarded to those spotted walking in groups of six! And a special amulet goes to those who are seen walking successfully up our hallways in a crowd of ten.

Of course that’s never happened, but not for lack of trying. In relation to that, keep at it, HeySayJump! A few more member changes might be the ticket! We’re **all** rooting for you.

But really, I’m pretty sick of you, Akanishi Jin and your long-suffering tale about your journey to enlightenment; your half-assed social guilt and especially your new, seditionist, vaguely pop-American worldview.

 _Anyway_ , Security has also made the announcement that they’d like for every Jimusho Talent to review the manifesto and commandment pamphlet we were given on The Day of Exultation. Well, guys, since we’re here, I might as well review the commandment chapter with you. I have mine open. All together now...

 

 _I: Superior namedropping will defeat any opposition._  
II: Remember exactly who you are. Even if your script says otherwise. [*] Amnesia-driven plots may only be auditioned for once every ten years.  
III: Sex sells, but not aggressively. Wear your tuck-n-tape-back undies at all times.  
IV: Your hip-swivel quota decreases with age. After 26, it’s just tacky. Under 17 quota fulfillment qualifies a Johnny’s Talent to three years immunity from shirts. Redeemable at any time.  
V: Actual meals are only to be consumed on camera. Everything else is simply light snacks or treats when you are very, very good.  
VI: Practice your Johnny Kitagawa voice every morning. YOU never know when you will be called on as his stand-in for important conference calls.  
VII: ( **As we’ve just discussed** ) For the good of general survival, all Johnny’s Talents must walk in pairs or possibly more. More is better.  
VIII: Begin your group with as many members as possible. Some of you will be inevitably devoured. ( **My usual regards and condolences to the remaining members of NewS** )  
IX: Juniors are not actual people yet.  
X: Every idol must earn his right to die.

 

They’re really not that difficult to remember. Granted, it took me all of my first two years to master Law Three. Uncomfortable thing that it is.

 

Now, maintenance has some concerns.

Lately there have been a number of incidents regarding the Juniors Who Lurk in the Shadows.

Debuting is, of course, not a contagion, but studies show that the poor creatures are ignorant of this fact and may—more than once—try to skin you and wear your face to work the following day.

So for those of you who’ve sent complaints to the top offices over the minor issue of being ‘skinned inappropriately’ in dark corners of the bathroom stalls or in the stairwells of the fire escape: Maintenance would like to assure you that those reaching hands are both harmless and innocent. They’ve even added that they intend to improve the lighting in both locations so that the frequent occasion of tiny, shaking hands reaching out of the darkness would not be misconstrued for the more _rare_ occasion of being grabbed and swallowed whole by the Ravenous Shadow Beast That Will Inevitably Swallow You Whole if You Do Not Stop Doing That Thing You’re Doing Which We Don’t Particularly Like, which, I should add, is still loose in our air vents and strangely large water pipes.

Well, that’s good news. I’ve been having realistic and ominous nightmares about that thing.

 

 

 

 

 

**And now a word from our sponsors.**

 

 

 

 

_Your skin crawls like it’s been lifted off its tissue and each gland beneath has its own set of tiny millipede legs. Your hair stands on end like its stretching out of your follicles to recoil from the walls around you where a rich, dark stain spreads and glares at you severely from a long expanse of floral print. Maybe your heart starts to thunder its own extremes against the delicate strips of muscle between your ribs and the scream from your mouth doesn’t sound like your own. Perhaps too many a night you’ve spent reliving this same visceral escapade; perhaps you’ll be dead when you get out of bed tomorrow; perhaps the one you love has left you... at last._

_Finally._

_Your friends have long begun to look at you the way people study reversed, oblong-shaped mirrors. You’re all wrong for this un-miraculous mortal coil and every part of your insides want out._

_And maybe that’s... just it._

 

**This message brought to you by Oxyclean Soap for Men.**

 

 

 

 

 

So, listeners, I just went to look in at Human Resources for updates on the Paperwork Crisis and guess who I ran into? I’ll give you a hint.

Small. Round. Knuckles.

Yes, correct. You got it.

Right, I should first report that the paperwork flood has stretched to as far as the seventh floor and is now moving further down by the hour. As our tiny—practically a closet—studio is located on the fifth, this has all of the staff rather ill at ease. However, contrary to this collective sentiment, your own dedicated and unwavering radio host is leaning a little bit more toward _giddy_.

It’s just that _he_ was wearing something entirely different this time. Feathers, of course, are a common thing to happen upon in our line of work, but something about the way he wore _these_ ones. They were so white, and so glittery and _so_ fluffy. The entire ensemble is likely hand-crafted as the smallest and softest feathers are visibly pinned and stitched with such detail and trail long toward his thighs. There are wings with such a realistic span that a human being could ever be said to possess—and gosh, do they suit him. A more descriptive observer might compare his entire figure—dressed as he was— to a Renaissance Angel with his round features so brightly flushed under his sanguine tan perfectly contrasted to the white of his apparel..

In my opinion, an observation like that wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

Tragically, dear listeners, I am, at heart, a reporter and I feel as though I really ought to just stick to the facts.

The following is a fact:

Tanaka Koki… was dressed in a chicken suit. Perhaps in preparation for a CM, but who can really know for sure these days?

All the same, there he stood in the middle of the HR room—well, not _directly_ in the middle as all idols prefer not to stand on or too near the flaky, brownish-red Summoning Circle that stains the office carpet and incinerates idols on contact.

“Nice chicken suit,” I remarked loudly at him. “Your feathers have glitter on them.”

Well, he took one look at me and his wings flapped with some distress, which I should mention, has me just that little bit extra elated.

“They told me to wear it,” he informed me in lofty tones. “I don’t know if this means they are pleased with me.”

“I don’t know either,” I said.

“Maybe it’s symbolic. I’m now the biggest rooster in the jimusho…”

Except he didn’t say rooster. His sense of humour may not be as polished as mine, but he has the fundamentals established and his delivery is just so fantastic. I admit it; I didn’t mention that he was clearly a hen. Instead, I laughed. An added bonus was when he smiled _because_ I’d laughed. He has one of those rare, honest smiles.

“So the paper’s blocked the windows,” he told me—gesturing with one expressive wing. To which where he turned and offered me a stunning view of the plumage from his sequin-studded tail feathers. Just gorgeous.

After some seconds, I followed his gaze to the large office windows, which were all covered in an assortment of documents, forms, contracts and sticky-notes. Listeners, a white, off-white, and vaguely beige collage has plastered itself to every door, vent-opening and window of the floors above us. The paperwork appears to be immoveable in a way that I’d liken to papier-mâché. It now clouds our view of the sun-splashed city below and any chance or memory of escape.

“But you,” he continued. “You’re all right, right?”

The _way_ he asked. I find myself introspective over its effect on me. I keep reliving the intonation. Because it is possible that in going to the HR offices, knowing Koki’s schedule as I always have, perhaps I was checking in on him and the concluding factor is that he wanted to know. You. You too. Are you also all right, Junnosuke?

All right. That first phase, just three tedious phases away from Are you perfect, Junnosuke? It is just enough for me to be all right and it will probably be enough for him too. I know he is all right; probably more than.

So am I all right?

That. Remains to be seen.

Right so yes, What I also learned from my brief—too brief—exchange with Koki is that currently Human Resources is concerning itself much more with cutting the problem at its source.

“ _Where are all the paperclips?!_ ” I overheard someone shouting as I made my quick exit to return to you, dear listeners.

Well, hopefully they find them. Staples and manila folders too, just in case…

 

 

 

And now for our monthly memo from the **Marketing and Publicity Department** :

 

Darling. Honey. Pretty thing. Close Your Eyes.

Think of something shameless. No holds barred. Turn the tables on everything you think is prudent and wise.. _Naughty_ , you. Now _revel_ in that special, secret and shameless thought. Within the walls of your commensurate and succulent mind, do what you would never do in front of your employer. Be uninhibited. Perform acts that are most unbecoming of an idol. Make it feel real. See how well it suits you. How filthy you’ve become where no one else can see.

Actualise yourself. Know to the very essence of your being the feeling of roguish satisfaction when you envision the expressions of shock and distaste on those who believe you to be someone different.

Hold all of that snugly, affectionately, _intimately_ in your mind.

Hold it there…

_Good_

Now, in the month preceding you or your group’s next media release announcement, be prepared to dodge and redirect questions about all of what you’ve just done here and now. Because it is now real, it is perfectly scandalous and it is good publicity.

Thank you for your time.

 

 

 

 

 

 _Darn_. I performed the exercise incorrectly once _again_. Every _time_! It’s a wonder I get any publicity at this rate. I start out all right and then just like every moment before I drift off to sleep in those buzzing, twilight-drunk seconds when all is dark I grow distracted by every existential question I’ve ever thought of. I just can’t seem to come up with a single thing for marketing. This is bad. I’ve heard some of these have expiry dates so chances are you’d need to come up with a new one every other month.

I’ve even heard how Yamapi invented a morally-grey doppelganger; an allegedly louche, garish fellow who drinks cheap fireball shots in Korea, rides taxis ‘til dawn and will stare unblinkingly, sporting a vague, uncharacteristic sneer. into the lens of any camera held up by a paparazzo. The creature might have saved his career. Now _that's_ imagination for you, Gentlemen.

I do so wish I could be that inventive…ugh. Get it together, Junnosuke.

So

Speaking of existential questions, listeners, I would like to direct your attention to a particular issue that has been worrying me, That of the choreographers in our building.

Where do they come from? Where do they go at night? Why are their eyes covered in those thin strips of gauze, which only serve to mask the red, bulbous and lidless orbs peering from underneath. If they are just embarrassed, then I understand, but I’m a big believer in flaunting one’s distinctive characteristics and we are a talent agency, not a beauty pageant. I don’t think.

Now, I only ask because no one else seems to want to talk about it and I don’t want to detract from their certifiable talent and remarkable work ethic. I just _have_ to know.

To this date, Matsumoto Jun of Arashi is the only other person I can say was ever willing to broach the subject with me.

“Rhythm isn’t something you see,” he’d drawled at me once. “You need to hunt it, Like a jungle cat and a swarm of bees at the same time. And when you have the rhythm, you pounce. Bite into its life-giving jugular. Compartmentalise any of that thick, sticky nectar you cannot digest in tiny sachets and take it back to your group. Feed them droplets of it day after day as sustenance. When it comes to force-feeding them, they _must_ swallow or diminish. You don’t want them to diminish, do you? _DO YOU_?”

Ahhh, I’ll always remember that conversation. It was a Tuesday and the sky was molten orange. I’d happened upon him just returning from the hunt. His hair was lustrous and wild; his steps careful and pained like his very soles had been worked raw. His stare was transformed by a light; something he’d seen or felt that I’ve only ever been on the very cusp of understanding. It was a gaze like fire sweeping over gasoline and it awed and distracted me from the dark, gleaming, red ring-stain around his mouth…

Oh, but I digress.

 

 

Well, Gentlemen, to put it plainly, we at WTJJ-R FM like to take a special interest in our more local entrepreneurial exploits. As you all know, last week, former NewS and Kanjani8 member and presently devoured, but regurgitated Uchi Hiroki celebrated the grand re-opening of the Johnny’s combini & Gift Shop in our building’s foyer. As I ascertained yesterday during my wanderings, the shop is still open for business and running smoothly and Uchi was there to happily greet me with his usual extended high-pitched whine of longing, blank, hungry stare and avaricious tongue sweeping over his lips.

Customer service at its best.

This is in such stark contrast to its previous owner Domoto Koichi, who mainly slept at the cash register, shouted cheerful, but scathing remarks just before throwing large, dark objects of power and persuasion at innocent passers-by. I like the man, but he’s never been much suited for retail and sales. Not the way Uchi has been since he was perfunctorily spewed from the Great Mouth of…jeez, the Ravenous Shadow Beast That Will Inevitably Swallow You Whole if You Do Not Stop Doing That Thing You’re Doing That We Don’t Particularly Like behind the doors of Johnny Kitagawa’s office at the time.

Of course, the alleged success of the store can _also_ be attributed to its new, more varied merchandise. If you took a stroll past the gift shop shelves, you’d find them now weighed heavily with Matchy’s Matches and Cigars, Kimutaku mugs, Yamapi bobble heads, cement moulds of Higashiyama Noriyuki’s instep, Tackey’s Tasty Tater Tots—now microwaveable!, Ninomiya Kazunari’s 12-step program to do whatever and a whole lot less, Maruyama’s Hamma’ Slamma Bass-slappin’ Workout Tape, Nakamaru Yuichi’s Avoidance and Deflection Kit—which includes the popular Pointed Stare in an On-looking Friend’s Direction, wholesale copies of Kato Shigeaki’s Pink  & Grey—wow!, Tegoshi Yuya’s flame-retardant lip gloss, Masuda Takahisa’s _mutilation_ -retardant lip gloss, Junior paw key chains, general locks of wind-swept, freshly blow-dried idol hair, _clean_ urine samples, and battery-generated warmth from the one you crave most.

These and many other idol-patented products don’t even cover Johnny’s Combini & Gift Shop’s immense inventory!

Also be sure to peruse the selection of their fashionably ironic t-shirts featuring classic Manager catchphrases such as

1\. “Nnno! _No_! No more sequins! You’ve gotten quite enough in my coffee as it is!”  
2\. “Yes, yes but why did you _need_ to take pictures of it?”  
3\. “Is that really you being sexy, or shall I schedule you for another exorcism?”  
4\. “Would you _please_ stop licking your page in that magazine! That’s an archive copy!”  
5\. “Smother you in your sleep? …What? I-I would never…*inadvertent sideways glance*”  
and everyone’s all-time favourite 6. “What? _What_? _How_? _WHY_?”

And many, many more.

Haha! I personally bought a number three for myself and I’m wearing it now in support of our local shop and I encourage you too, listeners, to pop over and buy something nice for yourselves. You’ll really deserve it after the day you’re about to have or are already having.

Oh! By the way, I sent a quick memo to Uchi this morning about my plans to air an advertisement and he only just replied via mail which says—hold on…OK, it says, “You’re really so very nice, Jun-chan. Make sure you come ‘round afterhours for a little one on one, k?’ Under this missive he appears to have made an odd-looking emoji that I’m afraid I don’t understand. It’s a capital ‘B’ followed by two equals signs and then a ‘3’, and then with a capital ‘O’ to finish. What can it mean…Wha…Oh. _Ohhh_ , ugh, how tasteless. An algebra equation? Gosh, I really should mail him back to tell him that I’m not a fan of advanced mathematics; I’m a numbers man, but only towards their more practical, everyday use. Adding letters just makes it all so messy.

Anyway, first ten customers tomorrow will be entered into a draw. The winner will be taken roughly by the shoulders and shaken viciously for a full minute.

Oh, that sounds invigorating…perhaps I’ll come to work early tomorrow.

 

 

Management Teams have been enthusiastically spreading the word that Top Office opened its doors this morning. Those doors, as you may be well aware, listeners, have not opened in five months now. But on this happy day, Top Office—built on the crossroads of the Afterlife— flung its immense doors open, immediately freeing a fresh onslaught of _that smell_ followed by the general impression that there might be a short, nude man standing right behind you, hovering his stubby, coarse fingers just inches from your throat. The impression is that he is whispering something softly and ardently at you. The whispered half-words are so soft that you can barely make out, but they are ardent enough that you feel you _should_ hear because however it is you react to what he has to say may very likely seal your fate.

It is all right. Don’t be afraid. That small, nude man is simply wishing to inform you that there has been a restructuring of the Junior rankings. This is to encourage a bit more of that friendly competition we all cherished as youngbloods in our early Junior days.

 _Ah_ , it seems only yesterday that my bandmates and I grew to love that solid, capable feeling we had as teens whenever we’d leave the safety of our beds in the wee hours of the morning daily to slather the eaves, doorstep and windowsills belonging to our future fans—who at the time we knew only through prophetic dream and oracle consultation—with mayonnaise and crushed lollipops all injected with a subliminal scent that would someday lead our most avid followers to us. Oh, the _carnage_.

So the new Junior ranks are as follows:

Blue Junior  
Green Junior  
Ripe Junior  
Angry Junior  
Flesh-Eating Junior  
And Ultimate Shiny Gold-Plated Classy Junior.

Of course the first three of these precede the Purgatory Junior, which is something like an alternative detour right before you’ve attained your rank as Ripe Junior to which where you are placed in a purgatorial stasis, kept on a diet of Skyflakes crackers and roasted oysters and then debuted within the year.

I wish all of the Juniors—even those mean ones who tripped me on my way into the break room—best of luck at reaching their own respective goal.

 

 

Ah! This just in regarding the Paperwork Crisis! There have been a total of eight casualties so far in the paperwork flood, three temps, one stylist, two managers and two Juniors. How unfortunate. Sources say a series of pages—scripts written and submitted by fans to be precise—folded themselves into small squares and slipped into the mouths of the victims one by one until there was no choice but to choke on various forms of self-indulgent, contrived, unedited and trite literature.

On that note, we’d like to offer our condolences to Kismyft2’s Fujigaya Taisuke. Managers, temps, and Juniors come and go, but you’ll never get that stylist back. We do however look forward to the return of your unnecessarily voluminous pre-debut hair. More officially, a welcome back in advance from WTJJ radio to the mid-storm ocean of dark brown soon to be gracing your scalp.

Anyway, be very careful, listeners, word around the building says that the killer paper is especially attracted to the scent of fresh cork and abrupt, but embarrassing sexual arousal. They have learned our strengths and weaknesses and have become impervious to flame and while we at Johnny’s Jimusho are more than accustomed to fearing the near- inevitable fate of being devoured by…well, you know, we are _all_ susceptible now to an attack experts in our Health Annex are now referring to as: Choking to Death. How horrid!

We have not been able to establish as of yet, the deterrent for the rogue pages and we wait for relief with shallow, frightened breaths through our nostrils and a resolve to never part our lips again.

Human Resources have now instituted a building-wide search for paperclips or anything resembling them because, according to our Head HR representative, “…they may have changed shape and could be lying around disguised as really thick needles.”

In related news, I’ve just spotted Tanaka Koki racing by the studio chased by a horde of sweeping pages. He is still wearing that absolutely gorgeous chicken suit. Take to the elevators, Koki; you can’t stretch that charming energy of yours enough to outrun them on the stairs!

 

 

I hope he heard me. I really wouldn’t want him to die that way. Definitely not _that way_.

Oh, you know what I mean, listeners. We all have our corporately-correct death wish, recyclable nothings, residue remnants of music, lights and one recurring audience’s euphoric tears. This is beautiful. This is how it will be.

However, some part of us—perhaps that very same portion that makes us start awake on the tail end of the same scream we used when we were small over a dream without a name; yes, it has to be that part.

That frightened little inch inside me dreams of a nondescript room, a large bed with a mattress full of bitten-back smiles and chuckles in the warm dark, under a cold windowpane where late Autumn raindrops chase each other and bleed together, of music trailing through the window from the party upstairs held in our honour, of children—descendants who already tell odd stories about me; about our time here.

Then you, sitting on the bed’s edge; your death is unearned but waxing close, your stare is determinedly furious with me for going first, for not even thinking to ‘Janken’ you for it.

It could be either of us, but it doesn’t matter because it’s a wish without inevitability.

And so with a wistful trail of glittering chicken feathers, a pair of screams down a desolate corporate hallway and the upstart arousal of lingering static-electricity seared behind our ribcages, a distant and paralysed state of dawning fear awakens. Murmurs through the walls that sift across the hairs on the backs of our necks in an aggressively demanding echo of “This is real. This. Is _real_. “

And it is. We are all irrevocably terrified. What better time than in this dark present to take you now…

 

To the Weather.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Before we return to further developments on our situation, let me share a quick PSA from our friends over in the **Health Annex behind the Human Resources Department.**

They are now accepting donations at the door for a series of reasons of which they only wish to share _one_. So the following has been approved by, well, Health. One among many fans you can’t live without.

 

The Juniors of this day and age are delicate, engaging, strange, determined and they respond so quickly to instruction and cue. They are devoured too quickly and taste of wooden stage direction. They are also not you. And we do ever so like _you_. When it isn’t you, it makes for stomach-upset. We emit low groans of pain when they imitate you, which give us a solemn and periodic state of indigestion. So, in the justification of health and well-being, we’ve resolved to recall at least a hundred of them for testing, refreshing, and genetic-splicing.

So we at the Health Annex are now in need of a lot of DNA.

You know what to do, guys, bring it all in. We know you have it lying around your house. We don’t want to come in the night and take it from you. Give it up. We’ve been patient. No one has hair like yours; no one can dance like you can; no one is as pretentiously diligent, charmingly flawed or as aggravatingly beautiful as you are—or have become. Let’s change that. We want more and we will _always_ want more.

A used tissue will do. Whatever you’ve got.

 

Maybe something you’ve licked recently. Or not recently. A thing you’ve breathed on…

 _Something_.

 

This public service announcement was funded, endorsed and roughly edited by the Ravenous Shadow Beast That Will Inevitably Swallow You Whole if You Do Not Stop Doing That Thing You’re Doing Which We Don’t Particularly Like.

 

 

**Back to the news.**

 

When we last left each other, the casualties from the Paperwork Crisis were rising and I was succumbing somewhat to irrational despair.

Well, during our break two things have happened. The first was I was given the opportunity to slip out and down the hallway. The elevator emergency alarm was razing its severe holler down every corner of our floor; the lights had since gone out and only the EXIT sign beaconed my path.

I…cannot say how I managed it, listeners, but the steel doors; shut tight and immoveable—just on the miniature chance that he was in there and possibly still alive, I pulled, yanked, pried them open.

Thinking about it now, I sit here before this single mic under a still lamp that splashes warm green light over me and my fingernails are in fact bleeding and I do believe I’ve ruptured something. I didn’t notice because, well, the reason can only be as good as the reasons I’d give for not noticing that this morning, there was four boxes of paperclips on my night table…

He was still living. Bright eyes and sharp words for me when I opened the elevator doors. Sheer and undoubted proof that he was living.

“Apparently the chicken feathers repel them on contact,” he told me. “And I kept my mouth closed. Like you said on your show…”

Who can say what sort of chemical imbalance causes paralysing joy, relief, sadness, and strength in a moment like that? All I can really say is that I have never hugged a chicken so tightly and no chicken has ever returned my affections so warmly and aggressively.

The second thing to have occurred is that Security, under General Management’s instruction, has resorted to crisis control mode hereby banning paper from the building.

So, Gentleman, jimusho law is eternal, and unquestionable law. All paper and paper-like products have since been escorted out …violently. Sources say as the flood of pages were taken out of doors and thrown unceremoniously to the curb, they emitted a loud, outraged scream quite like nails on a chalkboard to which where most security officers began to stomp on them out of sheer principle. So all of it, piles and piles of it now lay forlorn outside the entrance.

In the melee of Talents and staff emerging from their hiding places, hugging one another, grasping familiar hands fondly, Johnny now encourages all staff and idols to keep records on the walls, carve your music notes, _music_ , contracts and memos on the walls of our beautiful building. In this way, now that we have officially gone paperless, we have become a forever. Our remaining kouhai and those to come will look upon the walls as they go through their day to day struggle, not so unlike our own.

They will know what we have done on this day and what we’ve continued to do and what we will always do. And they will ask one another, in some distant future, “You too? Are you all right?” and perhaps, if my research on speculative fiction has any bearing, they mightrespond, “Because you asked me, I am perfect.”

 

Stay tuned next for the sound of an elderly man loudly chewing a cheese sandwich, only pausing to breathe labouriously out of his nose.

 

Good night, my fellow Johnny’s.  
G _ood night._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

__Dedicated in part to Tanaka Koki. Regardless what anyone else has had to say, he made a fantastic idol and I wish him the freedom to pursue the happiness he deserves._ _

 


End file.
